Living Under Lines


Those aboard might see the moon, but with the sun in their eyes, window shade’s are drawn down. Floating above me, these lines trek by.


These two were about 8 minute apart. They come from South America somewhere and up to Mexico. They do not see me. I am blended into a desert blur of mountains and haze. These planes are still in Mexico in the photo’s. Perhaps the captain will mention we have entered the US in the next minute. Vague hints of towns with those highway lines going through them. Who lives down there? Someone wonders. They do not know I am wondering about them.


These trails far to the west. They likely travel up the coast, traveling up Baja California. Like the lines overhead, evidence fades day and night, of cylinders filled with people on the move, coming or going to somewhere other than here. They do not see me, nor I they. Yet once back on the ground, they will be where I am. Not comprehending the lives above them, or on the other highways on the move.

We live under and around lines drawn with hopes and dreams, anticipation, regrets and memories. We seek out loves narrative, finding longed for connections and joy, resignation and the ignorance of all we do not ask or receive into knowing. Often not seeing into one another. All the way to the horizon of our life’s sight; lines into Life.